


neither sea nor shore

by wreathed



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alcohol, Blow Jobs, Canon Era, Dirty Talk, Enemies To Enemies Who Bang But Don't Talk About It, Fight Sex, Hate Sex, Insults, Light Bondage, M/M, Masochism, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:53:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25814605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreathed/pseuds/wreathed
Summary: Winter, 1846-7. Francis; Fitzjames; contempt.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 30
Kudos: 78





	neither sea nor shore

Though the nights appear no different to the days of this long winter trapped impotent in howling wind and creaking ice, the usual schedule is adhered to nevertheless, and Francis finds himself wiling away another interminable evening of socialisation.

He does not appreciate his great cabin being invaded by such studied conviviality; it remains an embarrassment to him that he is at last captain of his own ship and yet there being an expedition leader ranked above him means that Sir John is able to invite himself over any time he feels the urge, bringing his yarn-spinning lapdog Fitzjames and the rest of his cheery well-bred wardroom along with him.

While contributing as little as possible to logistical discussions of a new theatrical for the men, Francis has devoured three tumblers of whisky, but when taken with food it neglects to bring on enough of its numbing effects for him to find the chatter bearable, such is his sturdy tolerance.

He is at least cognizant enough to notice the twitch to Fitzjames’s face, acute at the space between cheek and jaw, that indicates some irritation has settled within him. One would have to have watched someone’s face with alarming regularity to recognise the sign of it, Francis concedes, but what else is there to keep watch on out here other than the dark and the storms and the quiver of the dip circle’s needle?

To cloud Francis’s mood still further, at the very moment when Sir John at last elects to depart and Francis is able to anticipate an impending return to drinking in solitude until sleep overtakes him, Fitzjames flicks his hair from his face and requests to remain behind so that the two them may discuss the most recently-transcribed magnetic readings and their intended scientific approach for the remainder of the winter. It is a topic Francis has been avoiding Fitzjames on for some weeks now out of sheer condescension and short temper. Sir John eyes the both of them warily as Fitzjames makes his request, ensuring Francis is in no position to refuse. He has to content himself with the tension of his hands clenching from this further imposition on him and his quarters, held entirely out of Sir John’s line of sight.

Once left entirely alone, they sit across from each other and begin their discussion with the barest modicum of civility. Francis finds Fitzjames in a surprisingly ill-humoured mood, his apparent good cheer fading correlatively with the length of time that they are out of boisterous company.

Francis is well aware he tends to have that effect on people.

Middle watch is rung in and Fitzjames is still yet to make moves to depart. Becoming absent-minded, Francis scowls down at the entire length of Fitzjames’s legs, crossed and to one side rather than tucked under the table, ending in those boots ridiculous enough to look excessive even in this generously-proportioned great cabin. They are fixed here; stuck with each other, jointly ill-fated.

Francis entertains calling for Jopson, who — exemplary steward that he is — will know upon immediate sight of Francis and Fitzjames detained that Francis wishes him to invent some pretext as to why Fitzjames must return to Erebus immediately. Alas, by this hour the exterior temperature will have dropped too low for Francis to be able to banish Fitzjames out into it and keep the bare minimum of a clear conscience. He will instead have to summon Jopson so as to arrange where Fitzjames will bed down for the night.

“All well?” Fitzjames asks, stilted through tight and upright teeth, and Francis belatedly grasps that he must have forgotten himself enough to sigh out loud after all.

“Does all seem well?” Francis replies. To start, there is the innate miserableness of their situation. Here they sit after a meal on fine china, dressed per regulation even though they are so distant from the reach of society. Fitzjames looks fit to sit for a daguerreotype, epaulettes bright and all snow long melted and dried away. He even turns his head upwards, scorn notwithstanding, as though looking for a better-lit angle from which to be seen.

“Must you always wear our circumstances so heavily?”

“These would not be our circumstances if—” 

“—do not bring down Sir John’s name when he is not here to defend it, I will not have you—”

“—I had been listened to. As well you know.”

There goes that fascinating twitch to Fitzjames’s expression again, bringing sharp satisfaction to Francis like a slash to a malefactor’s jugular. “You’re witless to bring it up, even with no-one but me to hear you. It will not help us now.”

Francis slams his hand down on the table. There is the smack of quaking glass on wood, and he meets the zeal of Fitzjames’s clear dark eyes.

“I beg you speak against the man for once,” Francis says, feeling a flash of keenly-felt anger and the loss of any desire for propriety. “Where he cannot hear you, when the facts are plain. For Christ’s sake.”

Francis lurches out of his chair. His mouth has gone dry and he seeks its remedy.

“You’ve had enough, Francis,” he hears Fitzjames say from behind him, deep-voiced and well-spoken and superior. The _impudence_ of that assertion, the temerity to assume use of his Christian name: that is enough to cause Francis to turn to face Fitzjames, furious. Fitzjames flinches, but he still does not hold his damned tongue. “It is not my fault you are bereft of the Franklin family’s favour.”

Francis finds himself a hair’s breadth in front of Fitzjames, panting in fury, his hand wrapping itself around the golden finery atop one of Fitzjames’s elegant shoulders. “Up,” Francis tells him, and to Francis’s surprise Fitzjames moves to stand as bid by Francis’s grasp: roughened but haughty and uncowering.

“Heed this,” Francis hisses. He feel Fitzjames’s shoulder shift under his hand and several layers of clothing. He watches the sway of Fitzjames’s face turning until in profile, the sharp line of his jaw slightly upturned, the nervous disdain in the stutter of his blinking eyelashes. “I am weary, unconscionably so, of your frequent commentary on matters for which you have freely participated in gossip but, mark me, you do not fully understand them.”

He expects Fitzjames, outranked or no, to tell Francis directly to cease his inexcusable behaviour: _take your hand from me_ , as scandalised as a pious debutante facing her inaugural suitor. Instead, Fitzjames raises his hands to push with force at Francis’s chest. Francis, caught off-guard, shoves back harder.

Theirs becomes an odd tussle that from an observer’s perspective might even look amusing: Fitzjames roughly pinned against the bulkhead by Francis with one hand, Francis making his best efforts to block the reach of Fitzjames with his free arm. Fitzjames gets at the neckline of Francis’s shirt underneath his stock, gripping tightly as he tries to push back, and at Francis’s next move there is the sound of a small rip being made in fabric from within Fitzjames’s grasped fist. A shout of effort comes from Fitzjames just as Francis groans in irritation, glowers, then finds he is pulling on that damnable fop’s hair to get him to let go at last.

Francis could not say what quite incensed him enough to grasp uncouthly at those meticulously well-kept strands and pull so that he has a full wide-eyed view of the sharp lines of Fitzjames’s face and the very top of his freshly-revealed neck, lightly sheened with sweat from their efforts, but it is this action that causes Fitzjames to sound short of breath from more than exertion. Their bodies slam against each other, close, Francis’s balance now flung forward on one foot so that his thigh is ahead of him.

“Cease your noise, or you’ll have Jopson flitting in,” Francis warns. A glance passes between them that contains a tacit understanding of mutual preservation, the heavy breaths Fitzjames is expelling pursing his lips out further; to be caught in such a position could not happen, whatever its reason.

They shift again, Fitzjames finding further strength as Francis eases his stance, and Francis ignores entirely the pleasant feeling of pressure he experiences; he is adept at disregarding such a reaction, here arising from him not having had a physical altercation, neither brawl nor a more intimate assignment, in a considerable period of time.

“Ha!” Fitzjames says, mirthless and smart-mouthed, lip curling to bare some more of his teeth. What a fool he is to think he has the measure of Francis now, just from this. Besides, Fitzjames has revealed himself no more nor less than Francis has. His excitement is just as evident, firm and fiendishly blatant against Francis’s thigh.

They spar some more, until Fitzjames’s hair is quite wild and out of shape, and then there is a moment where Fitzjames pulls back and adjusts with a short press of his own hand what they are both doing their best to ignore.

“Stop that obscenity,” Francis grouses. “You’re making this into something it is not.”

“Is this nothing you are interested in?” Fitzjames asks, a strained muscle above his jawbone trembling, his face far too close to Francis’s own. Conceited, crowing of his very minor advantage in height, Fitzjames pointedly presses down on himself with the heel of his hand once more. He’s close enough that Francis feels the movement of his hand more than he can see it. Francis keeps his eye line up at Fitzjames’s frigid jawline and the slight flush to his cheeks.

Fitzjames’s thigh remains a fractional distance from where an excess of Francis’s blood has unwisely rushed. Francis finds himself tense enough to grit his own teeth.

“Control yourself,” Francis insists in a furious whisper. In irritation at Fitzjames’s apparent inability to do what Francis asks of him, he grips Fitzjames’s wrist, which shocks Fitzjames into a gasp, and pushes Fitzjames’s hand away so that his arm is bent across his own body.

Fitzjames breathes out again, hard, and he cannot bring himself to try and forcibly move himself from this position. Evidently Fitzjames luxuriates in this sort of treatment when he desires such attention. This only serves to stoke Francis's ire further, as it does not meet with his ire well. He had not gone into these proceedings with much thought at all, but he certainly hadn’t intended to cause any sort of yearned-for pleasure.

“Still able, even with all the whisky in you?” Fitzjames says, and Francis does not think then at all. He pins the wrist he’s got gripped against the bulkhead, further twisting Fitzjames’s shoulder, and this time he feels the reaction unmistakeably: the heat and the hardness within Fitzjames’s trousers is stoked further, and the way Fitzjames’s back arches. The shake to his strong body, put in its place.

In truth, Francis’s whisky intake has been more truncated than usual, and Francis finds himself burdened with the most impressive cockstand he’s managed in months.

“It is not as if we are marooned in a whorehouse,” Francis tells Fitzjames with gruff distain. “In general there is not a lot of use for it.”

“Well, tonight you rise as quick as your temper,” Fitzjames says, tilting his head as though he is delighted to have happened upon another amusing anecdote as he drags his unpinned hand infuriatingly slowly over the fabric of Francis’s fly front.

“You lead yourself into temptation then, do you? Or perhaps there is someone else you go to—”

“I take myself in hand on occasion, yes.” Fitzjames says, as though it would be a strange affront for him not to do so.

“How can you leave your concerns in your mind alone for that long in this place? What do you think about?” Francis asks, giving a nervous swallow immediately afterwards as he realises how curious that makes him sound. He wishes he had never asked. Fitzjames’s hand over where Francis is hard is much too free in its attentions, to the point of unscrupulous distraction.

“I have a life to draw on,” Fitzjames says without further elucidation and, well, that's maddening. That could mean almost anything. Let Francis stew and blush and imagine that while held fat in Fitzjames’s hand with only woollen layers between them, he supposes. Whether Fitzjames refers to ladies at admiralty balls who should know better, or barmaids open to work of ill-repute for additional coin, or fellow shipmates, or…

“I would call you a scoundrel if it were not a waste of breath to do so, as you would only preen.”

“There is nothing proud in being a cad,” Fitzjames says, conspicuously serious, and Francis presses one palm hard against Fitzjames’s hip bone to make him cry out again, a sound fast becoming to Francis a contemptible clarion call, because he doesn't want to know anything further about Fitzjames, he doesn't, for his behaviour is too endemic to be a façade: there must be nothing more to him, nothing further underneath, and if anyone were to suggest otherwise he would refuse to hear it.

“Have this off you,” Fitzjames murmurs, the breath from his words tangible against the skin below Francis’s ear. Francis lets go of Fitzjames’s wrist, and Fitzjames’s fingers are at the buttons of Francis’s greatcoat, and Francis does not pull himself away. Since leaving London, Jopson is the only other person to have helped Francis undress, and this is entirely unlike his professional attentions. Jopson mends tears, he does not make them.

The epaulettes thud to the floor as the coat is pulled away. Their next grapple has Fitzjames at the fastenings of Francis’s waistcoat, and Francis slips his hand between Fitzjames’s stock and sweat-smooth skin, tightening his hand around his neck. Fitzjames bites down on his own lower lip, swaying into Francis’s vulgar grip, the line of his trouser fly no less distorted than it was before.

“You’ll respect this sort of manhandling, I see,” Francis tells Fitzjames tartly. “Rather than rhetoric and reason. Like some animal.”

“Some more respect you were due, is there?” Fitzjames bites back around the pressure Francis is exerting, sounding more guttural than usual, the power Francis holds to affect Fitzjames giving him a wave of twisted pleasure. Fitzjames’s fingers do not linger after finishing with Francis’s waistcoat, instead falling straight to the front of his trouser and taking out his prick, pulling at himself in impatient desperation, and it makes something within Francis ache and rage. “Standing somewhere waiting its turn to be called up?”

“The less you move about, the more likely we are to remain undetected; damned peacock,” Francis says, leaving Fitzjames’s neck alone in favour of intervening to smack Fitzjames’s hand away from where he paws at himself so lustily. Fitzjames whines from the denial, the sound near driving Francis to distraction, and Francis lunges to get Fitzjames right back up against the bulkhead again, pressed like some botanical specimen. Francis holds both of Fitzjames’s hot wrists tight together against his stomach, and watches with keen interest Fitzjames’s languid blink.

“Stay like that,” Francis tells him, and Fitzjames makes a pained but not unhappy noise, quite loud, which earns him a glare from Francis.

Francis lets his unfastened waistcoat fall from him and, desirous to block Fitzjames from doing whatever he wishes to himself without Francis’s involvement or permission, unfastens one of his trouser braces and loops it around Fitzjames’s wrists. He pulls then knots them firmly, the remainder of their length held in his hand like a leash, and Fitzjames’s lips slacken in inarticulate need in a manner Francis can interpret blessedly easily.

“You could harm me if you’d like,” Fitzjames says in a tone of voice Francis have never heard from anyone before: lost, but glad of it. He feels the impact of it bone-deep within him. “In return for pleasure later.”

It’s a weakness, its own kind of illness: as soon as Fitzjames asks to be hurt, Francis’s desire for roughness abates in correlation to how it would be appreciated. He would rather withdraw both the harm and the pleasure out of spite, and finds himself newly obsessed with finding the perfect way to unravel Fitzjames from polite equilibrium on his own terms.

“Have you no patience?” Francis spits, some of it flecking Fitzjames’s face, and Fitzjames looks vaguely disgusted but does not flinch, only bites down on his own lip once more. God, what would it take?

Francis is hit with the wild, overwhelming urge to drive into any possible space of him available — his arse, his mouth, a round grip of thumb and fingers held out for use, the tight narrow give between his thighs, anything, _everything_ — as though violating all parts of him would stake Francis’s claim in such a way that it would stop anyone else from getting to do the same. Francis knows that rank is no factor here. Fitzjames is the handsomest man in the Royal Navy, widely reported, and there are many who provide more pleasant company than Francis ever could. 

He gropes for Fitzjames, confirming his excitement has not subsided; Francis finds him as aching as ever, liquid-slick at the tip and keening for further attention.

“You are aware by now,” Francis tells him, close, gripping Fitzjames’s wrists over the tightly-tied braces, “that this voyage is no languid journey in a Western Rivers steamboat?”

“Oh yes, that’s who you think I am,” Fitzjames complains. “A young blockhead with an overactive temperament suitable for stifling climes.”

There is something in the way he says it: as if Fitzjames is affronted, naturally, but also as if he cares about Francis’s view of him more deeply than he should.

Francis thinks of Fitzjames far too often; he can hardly stand it. The only thing, enigmatic and distracting like a phantom itch, that gets into his thoughts with regularity beyond the drink and the fear.

“You are aware by now that I can keep you here for as long as I like? Push you to your knees so I can defile your mouth in the manner I choose?”

Fitzjames twists, his wrists bound, and lets his head back, overcome. “Insufferable,” he says of Francis, but his prick and his face betray him. 

“Get it wet enough for you bend over for it afterwards,” Francis murmurs, enjoying watching Fitzjames squirm. He is confident by now that his own prick is standing at its proudest, and he feels like he has been patient for an age.

“Please,” Fitzjames says. “You’re impossible. Hurry up and do it if we are to at all.”

After loosening where the braces are tied so Fitzjames’s hands are free, Francis grasps one of Fitzjames’s shoulders again and presses him downwards into service.

For balance on the slant of Terror’s floor, the heel of Fitzjames’s palm slams against Francis’s stomach on the way down, and it manages to have a surprisingly strong edge to it, as good as a bite or a slap, before Fitzjames deftly unfastens the buttons of Francis’s fly.

But before anything more is done about Francis’s own need, Fitzjames shuffles back and starts of some of his own jacket buttons. At the delay, Francis bristles.

“What are you doing?” Francis asks as Fitzjames, from his position on his knees, discards his jacket to one side. “If you were under the impression I wanted more of your body revealed to me, you were mistaken.”

“I’m not risking any incriminating mess if I’m to do this,” Fitzjames replies, his voice regaining a condescending tone once again as he starts on his fine white waistcoat. “Nor will I short change you by holding back. You want this from me, yes? I took to my knees like any good midshipman, and I suppose, unlike you, I am not so very, very much older.” Unkind amusement creases at his eyes.

“Indeed, your rapid rise through the ranks has been most impressive,” Francis responds. Fitzjames might only be making reference to holystoning the deck; if he meant any greater youthful vulnerability than that, Francis refuses to think any further about it. That drive finds him once again: to get the others out, to ward off any future attentions. Such a weakness, to have such an impossible desire. “It must ease the way, being able to make use of such a pretty face.”

Fitzjames, divesting himself of the waistcoat, only scowls, still from the floor, and does not stop.

Francis fumes; he must look idiotic, waiting with his prick out all red and dribbling in mid-air, being forced to watch Fitzjames remove layer upon layer of his top half of clothing. Francis wishes Fitzjames would go faster; at some stage, he loses patience and tries to get his hand in Fitzjames’s hair to drag Fitzjames’s mouth onto him, but Fitzjames shakes him off and returns to the unfastening of his neck stock.

When Fitzjames is finally finished, Francis is faced with the sight of so much more than he’s used to seeing of anyone: that boasted-over scar, a broad chest and strong shoulders that he should envy — and he does — but above all he sees every inch of pale skin bared and he wants it under his hands, some evidence left there that this is territory he has sighted and explored. 

Fitzjames frowns up at him from his position on the floor, face flushed, lips pursed as though he has made an especially pertinent observation and is waiting for Francis’s response.

“You’ve kept me waiting long enough,” Francis says. “If you want to discuss _respect due_ —” and that’s when he breaks off, as Fitzjames gives a moan of frustration and immediately takes in Francis’s first few thick inches. 

Francis keeps his sweat-slick palm against Fitzjames’s cheek the whole time, as if poised to slap him there, but he hardly needs to: Fitzjames’s enthusiasm remains without encouragement being necessary.

“If you finish whilst still in my mouth,” Fitzjames declares, taking the trouble to free his tongue from its assigned task to begin prattling once more. The slight hoarseness fresh to his voice makes Francis’s hand clench right into the meat of Fitzjames’s shoulder. “I’ll spit it right back onto you, you’ll see if I don’t.”

“I’ll make a go of letting you know,” Francis responds, but his voice has turned tellingly languid. “I’d rather take the opportunity to ruin your ridiculous hair.”

Fitzjames, all lankily folded back on his knees and looking nothing like anyone Francis has ever seen before, tips his chin upwards and scowls. “You would _dare_ —” he begins hotly, but yelps as Francis cradles the back of his head and pushes his parted mouth back down and Francis sees with triumphant pleasure how Fitzjames’s hand returns to the opening at the front of his trousers.

Francis’s spend comes more quickly than he expects it to. He begins a warning, but it comes too late, and he feels with great satisfaction the clench of Fitzjames’s soft throat, like this the talk all gone from him. Fitzjames swallows some of it but not all, the rest dripping from his chin onto the floor beneath them.

Francis pulls out of Fitzjames wetly, prick softening, satisfied. Fitzjames looks up at him with his hand between his legs momentarily stilled, expression pointed.

"It is not what you are due,” Francis offers, mind still slowed from the bliss of release. “It is not as if you left yourself alone.”

"Have you entertained before?" Fitzjames asks. If he was preparing yet again to bring up Sophia, which never failed to get under Francis's skin like a splinter that could not be pulled out, he would strike the man again. Damnable that he has spent so copiously and yet none of his fury has left with it.

“I am a man of fifty.”

“Unmarried.” Fitzjames brings a finger to his face to try and tidy up the mess left around his mouth.

Francis raises an eyebrow. “Yes, I have _entertained_ before: you not the only one out of us who has lived a life, and I have years on you.”

“Well, that last part _is_ plain to see,” Fitzjames drawls, rough-voiced, and Francis reddens. Francis would reproach Fitzjames for his insolence, only now he imagine Fitzjames in this context would only go and like it.

Francis could request that he return to his self-abuse, but the desire to be the man to unsettle him lingers.

“Seat yourself up on the table, legs apart,” Francis bids him, and Fitzjames, a desperate sight, bare-chested but still in his undone trousers and perfect boots, complies.

Francis gets his hand around Fitzjames’s prick, and if he could succeed in thinking about anything else but Fitzjames when he has the man under him like this, he would do so. As it is, he watches the opening up of Fitzjames’s mouth, still shiny-damp with spit and spend, and considers how firm and slick Fitzjames feels in his hand.

“Please. _Sir_ ,” Fitzjames slurs, arching his back

“You mock me,” Francis grunts out. “I am still waiting for you to call me that in front of anyone else for it to have true benefit!”

“No benefit here then? Do you not care what I call you when we’re alone?” Fitzjames asks slyly between hitches of his breath, and that has Francis’s hand back at his neck. Francis would bite down on the skin there if he could, if Fitzjames was of a rank where he still dressed himself and no-one else but they would ever see. “I had you marked as someone — _oh_ , Christ — more integral than that. Not, ah, doing things for appearance’s sake.”

“If you do not do as I wish, I would lend you out and let them all at you. Is that what you want? All of them to come through in their work-scuffed boots and do with you as they please?” Francis had intended the words to hurt, or at least to rile, just as the thought of others despoiling Fitzjames hurt him, but Fitzjames does not react as expected.

“ _Francis_ ,” Fitzjames moans out in a broken sound, immediately muffled by Francis’s free hand being placed over his mouth, fingers cramming in to try and hold his tongue. Fitzjames shudders through the wet warmth of his spill covering Francis’s right hand just as his mouth sucks down on Francis’s fingers stuffed past his lips so hastily.

*

“You would call for Jopson now? It must be the dead of middle watch.”

“He will come,” Francis says. They have righted their clothes as best they can, cleared any lingering evidence.

“Of course he will; he wouldn’t dream of not answering the captain’s bell. That’s hardly the point.”

“I imagine this is when Mister Bridgens would normally be rising in order to begin the arduous process of setting your hair in curl-papers,” Francis retorts, and Fitzjames shoots him a renewed look of unentertained disdain. Bridgens would be most welcome for Fitzjames at this moment most likely, his hair being an utter mess, and Francis’s heart hammers to know the cause.

“Where else will you sleep? You can hardly take my cabin.”

“I’ll take a chair here,” Fitzjames says, mouth twisting in some slight echo of disappointment, voice sounding richly ruined and it makes Francis want to slam a hand to his neck all over again. “You need not trouble yourself or your steward. I would rather not be examined with curiosity by anyone on this ship with my uniform looking so out of place.” 

Francis cannot help it: his anger still abates, but it might have altered state, like vapour condensing to liquid, and he takes in the sight of Fitzjames once again. It suits him, Francis thinks savagely, to be brought down so. He is aware of how these small, specific pockets of knowledge he now holds on Fitzjames cannot be thrown into a fire to stoke then disappear like tinder. They are ineradicable.

“The same goes for any curious examining you may be doing, as well,” Fitzjames says, his cheeks still pink. Francis thinks to tell Fitzjames that he has never looked so well, undone as he is as, in no state to conceivably hold authority to reprimand a passing AB for a collar askew, but in the end Francis cannot give voice to something so unambiguous. He has some time to wait before daylight will return and bring him to his senses, or so he hopes.

“Make use of my washbasin first, then,” Francis says, wondering what it would feel like to return to a time when he still found the stare Fitzjames gives him entirely unfathomable. “Providing the weather clears, you can leave with an escort in a few hours.”

Fitzjames gives a stiff nod as if they are little more than strangers, then goes through to Francis’s bed cabin. Fitzjames will soon leave, and Francis will wait for as long as they are trapped in the ice for Fitzjames to voice a fresh contrivance allowing him to stay. One day, Francis hopes, there will be somewhere else for them to go.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the whole gang for the encouragement — you’re great.
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://wreathedwith.tumblr.com/post/626025682840993792/neither-sea-nor-shore-wreathed-the-terror-tv)!


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